


Love and Discretion

by TourmalineQueen



Category: Bedwyn Saga - Mary Balogh
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 05:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/pseuds/TourmalineQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wulfric has no idea how to deal with an emotional Christine. Morgan and Jacques offer him some advice. Christine discovers why she was barren for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Discretion

**Title:** Love and Discretion

 **Disclaimer** : Characters belong to Mary Balogh, I simply play with them for fun.

*-*-*

“Why do you weep?” he whispered, then sighed softly.

Wulfric Bedwyn, the lofty Duke of Bewcastle, was at a loss. His lovely new wife was in her dressing room, weeping quietly. Her maid had left moments earlier, dismissed by her distressed lady; she had looked hopefully at Wulfric, as if he (the Duke of ice!) knew how to quell Christine’s tears, before she scurried out silently and speedily. He lifted a hand to knock on the door, but then lowered it, thinking better of the action. He would only intrude on her, when she clearly wished for solitude.  
It was not the first such occurrence since their wedding, but each time he had noticed her upset, she had brushed away the evidence, smiled too brightly and told him it was nothing more than monthly weeps. It was _not_ nothing, he knew, and he more than suspected what was distressing her; what was worse, from his point of view, was that he had no idea what to do to make it better. Much as he hated the thought of it, he was helpless to help her – he, the one who had, simply by listening and watching had discovered a major source of upset between his wife and her family, and by careful manipulation – not to mention one memorable act of violence - rid them of it, too, was helpless to comfort a woman in tears.

Frowning, he turned from the connecting door to Christine’s dressing room and walked slowly and quietly back to his bed: certain that his wife, particularly at this time of the month, would not wish to join him. At least, she would not come to him at this hour, and certainly not to pursue their marital activities. He knew she would likely join him later to sleep, however, and the knowledge definitely made him feel better, and somewhat comforted. He knew it was futile to wish for anything, but, by God, he just wished he was able to comfort her the same way.

He was dozing, but by no means asleep when he heard the door open and close, and the sound of bare feet padded closer to the bed. He made a sleepy noise of welcome, and lifted the covers for Christine to climb in beside him. She did so, her cool body curling up against his warmth. He slid an arm about her, drawing her closer so that they lay nestled together like spoons. Softly, Wulfric kissed her nape and settled down to sleep.

“I love you,” Christine whispered. “So very much.”

He kissed her again.

*-*

The Countess of Rosthorn sat at her easel in the lovely grounds of the Rosthorn country estate, trying, very hard to capture the essence of the small brook she faced in oil on canvas while at the same time trying very hard to prevent her eldest son from toddling into the water, which job was supposed to have been his nurse’s task. It had seemed like such a good idea, she thought wryly, to take Jacques out around the grounds with her. The nurse that accompanied them had been recommended to them by a family whose children clearly learned only how to do exactly as they pleased, without censure or discipline. Morgan had to remind the woman several times to kindly not allow Jacques to get his suit wet while he plays – even if he screams when turned away from the water. Morgan almost felt sorry for her; she reminded her a little of Miss Cowper, who was so terrified of Bewcastle that she panicked about doing the least little thing the wrong way. Only Gervase, the Earl of Rosthorn, was nowhere near as frightening as Wulf had been, Morgan thought with a small smile. She turned at the sound of footsteps on the gravel path nearby. Speak of the Devil, and here he comes.

“Wulf! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you from Lindsey Hall?” Morgan asked as she stood to greet her brother.

Jacques, with the supernatural speed only a very small child possesses, reached him first. Wulf bent and in a single graceful movement lifted her son and rested him against his hip. He spoke to Jacques very quietly, and Jacques replied with a silent, solemn nod. With a single glance and a half raised eyebrow, a look that Morgan had never managed to master, Wulf dismissed the nurse who scurried to the house gratefully.

“This is not a social call, Morgan. I need advice; specifically what I need is your advice,” Wulfric said candidly. “I would appreciate your discretion concerning this conversation, also, as Christine is unaware that I am visiting you.”

“You’re not ordering my silence, Wulf?” Morgan asked, lightly teasing her autocratic eldest brother.

“I had found in the past that making a request into an order had little or no effect upon you,” Wulf teased back. “Besides which,” he added more seriously, “it is not my place to order you to do or not do anything, anymore. And you are possibly the least appropriate person with whom I could have this conversation, ergo I would prefer that nobody else hear of it, and ordering you to hold your tongue is the most certain way to ensure the whole family hears of it.”

“What’s wrong, Wulf?” Morgan asked, seating herself on the stool by her easel. Wulf sat directly on the ground, manoeuvring Jacques onto his lap. Morgan winced at the stains the cream breeches that Wulf wore would inevitably accrue; his valet would throw a fit. He sat in silence for a few moments, gathering his thoughts; Morgan understood that it was not an easy thing for the man who was the Duke of Bewcastle to ask for help, and she did not rush him. Abruptly he began to speak.

“I should not have come. But since I am here... It is Christine... She weeps, Morgan, and I wish she wouldn’t,” Wulfric said softly. “My wife has her courses and she weeps and there is not a curst thing I can do to stop it. If I speak to her she pastes on a smile that is too bright to be sincere and assures me that I am mistaken in my belief that anything is wrong.” Wulfric hesitated momentarily, and nodded to himself before saying even more quietly, “Christine is barren, Morgan, and she wishes not to be; I can change nothing for her. What might I say to her so that she will not weep?”

Morgan’s heart broke for her brother and sister-in-law. She understood suddenly why Wulf took Jacques in his arms – even if he didn’t quite understand his own actions. He had not looked her in the eye as he spoke; hiding his emotions by distracting himself with her son. She reached out and clasped his hand, squeezing tightly for a brief moment. He looked at her then, and for one instant, Morgan saw Wulfric Bedwyn the man in love with a barren woman, longing to give her the child she dreamed of, and not the Duke of Bewcastle; she was forcibly reminded of the day she broke the news of Alleyne’s supposed death to him – how disappointed she had been, and selfish, to expect he would not grieve and instead simply comfort her! And now he needed her to comfort him, and to tell him how to give comfort to his wife.

“Oh, Wulf, I’m so sorry,” she said sadly.

“You do not have to be; it is not your fault, and nor is it your problem. It is my problem, and I am simply having some difficulty finding the right words to … ameliorate matters,” he said, struggling even now to find the right words. “Perhaps I should have gone to Oxfordshire, and spoken to Eve. I know she and Aidan had to wait…”

“Not at all, Wulf, I’m glad I’m the one you have chosen to confide in. How did you find out? If it is too personal a query, then, of course you are under no obligation to tell me,” Morgan asked, trying to salve Wulf’s pricked pride.

“She told me she was barren one evening at a house party, shortly after we met … I would prefer not to discuss the circumstances of that conversation, however.”

So they had pre-empted their wedding vows – and indeed their entire courtship, it seemed, if the house party at Lindsey Hall truly had been Wulf’s way of wooing Christine and winning her over, Morgan thought.

“Her first husband had … not been pleased with her for not providing an heir,” Wulf added delicately. “And they had been married for seven years. It has been only a matter of months so far for us.”

“So she knew for a long time that she would have no children?” Morgan asked rhetorically.

Wulfric nodded. “Yet still she weeps. Why is that, Morgan? Do you know? I do not understand it one bit.”

Jacques had been sitting quietly up to this point, grabbed Wulf’s quizzing glass from its ribbon round his neck, and started waving it about, peering through the wrong end of it. Wulf actually smiled at his nephew’s antics.

“I know someone who likes my quizzing glass almost as much as you do,” he told the boy with a small smile. Morgan smiled too, she had heard about Christine taking Wulf’s glass and throwing it into a tree. “What can I say to her?”

“Say I love you,” Jacques said seriously, in reply to the question directed at his mother.

“I wish it was that simple,” Wulf said sadly.

“Mama says it to Papa, and Papa says it to Mama and then they are happy,” Jacques pronounced with toddler logic. “So you tell Auntie Christine and she will tell you and you will be happy, and she will be happy.”

Wulfric said nothing, but looked at his sister with pleading eyes.

“From the mouths of babes, Wulf,” Morgan said gently. “Tell her you love her, no matter what, and it will ease her pain considerably.”

“I do tell her that, and often,” Wulfric said, somewhat indignantly, “and I told her I have no need of an heir – with Aidan as my heir presumptive, and Rannulf’s William – not to mention the rest of my prolific siblings the duchy does not lack for a Bedwyn to take it over. I told her that and she said I didn’t understand. Apparently this is an accurate observation. What is it that I do not understand?”

 “Oh, Wulf, you truly said the wrong thing to her there. You need to experience some things to understand them. Motherhood is something that some women have thrust upon them and they either love or hate it, and other women long for the sweet load of their husband’s child within them. Some are granted it quickly,” she said, nodding in Jacques’ direction as if to offer an example, “and others are denied it without rhyme or reason. Christine loves you deeply, Wulf, and she doesn’t want simply to make _**an heir**_ for you, she wants to give you a _**baby**_ , give you a _**family**_ ,” Morgan said emphatically. “So she hopes. She must be clearly aware that hers is a fruitless hope – but hope has a way of making one think the impossible may be less impossibility and more something that could happen, if only one hopes _enough_. At least, that is what I think she must think. I would need to speak with her, at length and in great detail on the matter to be certain.”

Wulf shuddered at the thought of Christine discovering he had spoken to Morgan, asked her to discuss such an intimate matter, and handed a squirming Jacques back to his Mama.

“No thank you, indeed, Morgan. I have broken faith with her enough by coming to you today; I had business in London and added this detour to my journey so that she would not know. I should hate for her to think that I have been discussing our intimacies with all my siblings,” he said dryly.

“Well, you may count upon my discretion, then, Wulf. This conversation will remain here, with us three.”

“Thank you, Morgan, for helping me to understand her better,” Wulf’s silver eyes were warm with gratitude.

“Uncle Wulf, if you really want a baby, you can have Jules,” Jacques said innocently.

“That is a tempting offer, young man,” Wulf said to his nephew seriously, “but I do not think your Mama or your Papa would be very pleased with me if I did.”

“Mama and Papa don’t need more than me, so they can share Jules with you,” the boy said with more childish logic.

“I think not. Although they clearly have the perfect son, I think they are partial to having a second child who can look up to you, and whom you may look after as you grow up together. After all, my Mama and Papa had me, and no need to strive for perfection beyond mine, although they had your Uncles Aidan, Rannulf and Alleyne, and Aunt Freya and your Mama after me. That is why there are younger brothers and sisters, Jacques: so that elder brothers have someone to look after. As I looked after them, will you look after Jules?” Wulfric asked with a deadly serious expression and his quizzing glass drawn up to his eye.

Morgan was astonished by this insight into her brother’s self-imposed role in the family, to watch over all the rest of the rambunctious crowd of Bedwyns, and ensure their lives were good, without requiring or expecting thanks of any kind. It made her wonder if that was why he had been the last to marry.

“Yes I will Uncle Wulf, I promise,” Jacques said, equally seriously.

“So, I will not share your brother with your parents, so you can be a good brother to him. Is it a Gentleman’s Agreement?”

From his perch in Morgan’s arms Jacques held out his hand and Wulf shook it firmly. It was all Morgan could do not to laugh. Wulf gathered Morgan’s abandoned painting and equipment, surprising her again by not conjuring a footman with the twitch of a brow to lift it for him, and they walked back to the house together in companionable silence.

*-*

Wulfric was gladder than he wanted to admit to himself when the Bewcastle travelling carriage turned onto the straight, tree-lined drive that led to the door of Lindsey Hall. He had been gone for less than a fortnight, his detour to visit Morgan having added only three nights to his journey to and from London, but he still longed to hold Christine in his arms. He was surprised by how much he missed his wife. Eventually the impatient Duke was in the Entrance Hall, Fleming greeting him cordially – almost jovially.

“Her Grace has been awaiting your arrival with impatience, Your Grace,” the butler said.

Before Wulfric could reply the sound of slippers slapping on tiles reached his ears, and he turned to the corridor just in time to see his wife running towards him, a joyful smile brightening the room, arms outstretched. She launched herself forward and crashed into his arms with her arms flung around his neck, chest heaving with her exertions, even as he stumbled back a full three paces at the impact, arms wrapped tightly about her waist. Her face was buried in his shoulder, and he could just make out her voice, murmuring indistinctly. He drew her head up for a moment to hear her words. She was thanking him, over and over, endlessly repeating her gratitude.

“Thank you, Wulfric, thank you, oh, thank you my love!”

“For what do you owe me this gratitude and greeting?” Wulfric asked mildly, brows raised curiously.

Fleming grinned to himself and disappeared, the way only the best butlers know how. Suddenly the Entrance Hall, usually populated by several footmen, as well as Fleming and sometimes the housekeeper, was deserted, but for the Duke and Duchess, clasped in each other’s arms.

“Oh, Wulf, I love you so,” Christine said fervently. “Thank you, my love.”

“Why?” Wulf asked. "For what do you thank me?"

“Oh, Wulf, it’s the most wonderful thing. It’s a miracle … I’m with child. I’m going to have a baby! You will be a Father! And it’s all thanks to you!”

“With child! This is a surprise. And...You will be a Mother,” Wulfric pointed out redundantly.

“Yes, and I will give you a _family_ ,” Christine said, drawing her husband down for a lingering kiss.

“Your first husband, then, was incapable,” Wulfric said, when they had both regained their breath. “And I am not.”

“I suppose that is the case,” Christine said with a sad smile. “I hope that knowledge does not upset Hermione and Basil over much.”

“How can you worry that your great good news might be upsetting to others?” Wulfric asked softly, his lips curving slowly into a small smile. “Do not answer that, my love, for I simply love you all the more for it. I hope you will not think less of me for being glad that it was I who proved Oscar incapable?”

Christine shook her head, and smiled fondly at her reserved husband. “Poor Oscar would never have understood what you do.”

“And what do I understand that he did not?” Wulfric asked, genuinely curious.

“That a woman’s love for a child does not lessen the love for a man, but only increases it; Oscar wanted an heir, but he would never have been able to bear my attentions being split or shared between him and any child we might have had. I’m glad you have so many siblings, Wulfric; you know how love grows more when there are more souls to share it. And you gave me this baby. And I-”

Wulfric kissed her to interrupt the flow of her chatter. “I love you more,” he said quietly. “Thank you for letting me do so. Do you know - I was seeking advice to help you feel happier about being... barren... as you were, and now it seems I have done more than speak to change matters. I am _glad_ he was incapable,” he repeated, defiant against good manners, and selfishly proud of himself.

“Oh, Wulf. You have given me so much, my dearest heart,” Christine replied. “And now you have given me the greatest gift of all; the gift of giving you a child. I love you more.”

“Perhaps,” said Wulfric, affecting his best tone of noble ennui, “we should adjourn to the bedroom to discuss and decide who loves whom the most.”

“Perhaps we should.”

*-*-*


End file.
